


Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful Boy

by Tammany



Series: The Secret Marriage [5]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: (mild) enema play, BDSM, Cleanliness kink, Consesual, Corsetry, Crossdressing, Dom/sub, Kink, M/M, MILD water-play., Very consensual--nothing is done against anyone's will, dominant greg, dress-up play, submissive Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 18:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20934824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Day two.Read the tags. Nothing here is particularly intense or degrading. But the one likely squick is one of the first aspects. There is more intense clothes porn than squick porn in the entire piece, but--Our boys have given themselves an entire week, and are exploring. Gently, and with tender respect. But they are going outside their comfort zones, and therefore outside mine, and possibly yours. All is consensual. All is happy. Orgasms occur. Mycroft is very happy.I hope you like it. I hope it hasn't gone on too long already. A week is more time than it needed, strictly speaking. See what you think...





	Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful Boy

Mycroft woke up the second morning naked and bound, wrists crossed over his chest, eyes blindfolded…

Greg spooned against him, holding him close.

Just waking that way was enough to send him into arousal. He was owned. He was Greg’s. He was in Greg’s bed, arms tied crossed over his chest by Greg’s choice, blindfolded by Greg’s choice, held in Greg’s arms, with Greg’s cock nuzzling up between his cheeks.

He was Greg’s. His baby. His boy. His toy.

The words streamed through his mind, humiliating, thrilling, erotic.

He felt his cock stir, and squirmed, knowing he’d been freed of the cock ring and cock cage from the night before, his husband uncomfortable leaving him that tight-bound overnight.

His bladder was full…causing him to giggle under his breath. Full, but not so full he couldn’t bear it a little while. His bum was sore from the previous days games—the great, fat butt plug, and then Greg fucking him to kingdom come. He had aches in parts of his body he hadn’t even thought about in decades, thanks to hours on his knees, or curled up like a snail in a shell, or kneeling with his arse in the air and his face on the ground, or tied with his legs straddled open.

The ache was welcome, as was the sore bum and the tender lips and the feeling of being used like a household trull provided for staff entertainment.

He wondered what today would bring and shivered at the ideas that came to him. All the fantasies he wanted—and some of those he didn’t. He thought again about Greg teasing him with the idea of inviting Sherlock and John over for a poker night, and demanding Mycroft take his place as Greg’s subservient slut, in silks, stuffed with sex toys, cock caged, accepting Greg’s groping hands and teasing fingers meekly…responding to his touches with Sherlock and John watching every move, every squirm, hearing every gasp, memorizing every plea that Greg fuck him…

It was so hot as a fantasy, and so horrible as a scene. He hoped Greg knew what was erotic, and what was so bad he’d want to kill himself after, unable to live with himself.

He shivered, mind and feelings caught in the crossfire of thoughts and sensations and memories of his glorious sex holiday. It was such an indulgence…

Behind him his husband stirred, shifted, rubbed his cock against Mycroft’s arse, stroked his arms gently. Greg pressed his face into Mycroft’s back and murmured softly.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” He pressed a string of soft kisses across Mycroft’s shoulders, tonging his skin as he went along. His hands reached down and cupped Mike’s bum cheeks and squeezed. “Such a sweet arse my boy has…”

“Good morning, my husband.”

“Full bladder today?”

Mike squirmed, embarrassed at the memory of the day before. “Full enough. There’s no rush if you want to play here awhile first.”

“While you squirm and try to hold it?” Greg’s voice seemed alight with laughter. “Another morning, love. Today we’re going to go enjoy that glorious en suite. Rise and shine, sunshine.” Hands tugged gently. “Gonna be a busy day…”

Mycroft shivered, wondering what “a busy day” was going to mean. He let himself be guided out of bed and helped up, then led blind to the bathroom…

“Here you go. Let me help,” Greg said, pushing his boy gently into place in front of the toilet—then, calmly, he gripped his cock, and aimed it. “You can pee, now,” he said, standing behind Mycroft, chin resting on Mycroft’s shoulder. “That’s it. Relax. Let me guide everything.” His hand was firm, and he waited as Mycroft struggled to relax and let down his pee with his lover there, apparently determined to run the show. He was blushing, feeling the sort of hot embarrassment a boy felt when he wet himself in kindergarten.

“That’s my baby,” Greg purred, when Mycroft finally released. “Now sit.” He helped again, compensating for the lack of balance caused by Mycroft’s arms bound across his chest.

Mycroft, seeing where this was heading, whined. 

“Shhhh, baby. How are your hands doing? Fingers cold?” As Mycroft voided, Greg tested his fingers, checking that blood flow was still strong. “Done? Good. Up now, and bend over so I can clean you up, boy.”

Mycroft hadn’t needed his arse wiped since childhood. But with his arms tied and his eyes covered, he wasn’t even sure he could bend over safely, and he certainly couldn’t wipe. He wanted to swear. He did stall.

“If you untie me, I can do it…”

Greg huffed. “Baby…be good. Or be smacked hard.”

Mike hesistantly rose and bent. He felt Greg part his cheeks wider, then the sound of a wet wipe being extracted from a carton, and the steady, firm dab of the cloth over his hole. Then firmer dabs; a slight scouring sensation; the press into the knot.

“I think it’s going to be an enema, today,” Greg murmured softly. “Make my baby all clean and shiny inside to get ready for our games.”

Mycroft whimpered. He’d had enemas on rare occasions, and he knew about enema play…but he was apprehensive and shamed just thinking of it…and of the many variations he’d heard could be used. “Enema? Greg, I’m not sure… I mean….Do you really think…?” He didn’t want to refuse. But maybe Greg would relent? Surely a good, sudsy, fingery wash-up was good enough, if he did it with some real play at making a show of it?

“Boy…” Greg’s voice was stern. “Today we’re going to work on making you the prettiest, sweetest harem boy a dom ever laid out on a mattress. Groomed. Perfect. Inside and out. Understood?”

Mike wilted, as Greg drew him upright. “Yes,” he said, resigned and surrendering. “As you wish, Greg.”

“That’s my baby boy. Come to the shower, sweetness. I’ll help you climb in.” He settled Mycroft with his chest on the tiled shower bench in the big shower, arse up and out, legs wide. He fondled between his legs, practically purring as Mycroft’s cock twitched and stirred at the attention. “I love how you’re just gagging for it, baby. My ‘Iceman.’ Hah. If James Moriarty could have seen you like this…Barely awake and already a needy wreck. He’d have named you something else, I’m thinking. Her Majesty’s Trollop, maybe—cock-sucking for England.” He stood, still laughing, and Mycroft heard him retrieve what sounded like plastic buckets and other tools.

“Tell me how you feel, love,” he said, intense, as he worked out of Mike’s sight. Water runs. There’s a sound of mixing. The faint squeak of hoses… “Words, baby. I want your words. How does this make you feel?”

Mycroft was bad at words, embarrassed to express his own weakness. It’s worse than a confession—and, therefore, he suspected it was just what he needed in this experiment in surrender to his husband’s will.

“Terrified. A bit…defiant. So open…so helpless. You can do what you want. You can see every inch of me; touch every inch of me. I can’t fight back.”

“You can safeword.”

Hidden behind his blindfold, in the dark, he considered it: to safeword out. Greg would accept instantly, offer a time out, offer cuddles and talk, remove the scary challenge that loomed. But…then Mike would lose that thrilling, cock-stirring sense of being really helpless at his lover’s hands; really subjected to something that was upsettingly, seductively over his ordinary boundaries.

“Nnnnno. No. I want… Make me, Greg.”

“Make you what, baby?” Greg’s voice has gone rough, and he’s not asking “nice” now. He’s asking down and dirty. “What are you afraid of?”

“Completely in your power… I want to feel you make me…”

Greg’s hand groped between Mycroft’s legs, grabbed his cock and balls, and tugged—almost too hard. Indeed, just a bit too hard. Perfectly too hard. “Like this? Like your private real estate is my property? Like I can hurt you—or use you—or share you with strangers—and you can’t even make yourself say no?”

The words, the firm grip, the position—lying on the cold tiles, crushing his own arms in place, face on the tile. The silk bonds. He was helpless. Greg owned him. Greg could do anything he liked, even make Mike talk about it.

“Hot,” he gasped. “So hot, to be your slut. What do you have planned, husband? How are you going to use me?”

Greg laughed, deep and dirty. His hand kept its grip on Mycroft’s cock. “Fuck. You think I’m going to tell you, when I can surprise you? Make you shake and beg and cry for me?” He let go, then fondled Mike’s wide-open crack, defenseless and revealed in the light and the open air. He pinched the inner curve of one cheek, using his thumbnail to add savage pain. Mycroft panted and cried out with the shock. Then Greg was gone, returned to his buckets and his water and his piping, leaving Mycroft still wide open—waiting.

Mycroft was in knots, aroused, cock rising, balls tight. His stomach clenched.

His man was going to stick an enema wand up his arse and clean him out…and who knew what more?

He could smell the scent of his favorite shampoo—rosemary, slightly stinging when he uses it as body wash. His lover was paying so much attention to his response to the sting and burn of strong oils…recognizing how much he loves it. He wondered if later in the week Greg would pull out the stops and go for the Tiger Balm that could make him writhe and beg and cry?

Now there was the sound of something being hung overhead, from—what? Had Greg provided some kind of hook from the shower piping? Or suspended from the ceiling? It doesn’t matter which: he clearly had things in hand.

Mycroft could see himself in his mind’s eye. Blindfolded. Bound. Face down on the shower bench, arse up, legs wide, entire crotch open to assault.

Fingers trailed inside his crack.

“I can feel last night on you, you dirty thing,” Greg growled, hot and sexy. “Washed you off myself, and you still have a hot, sticky little crack, covered in my come. You’ve got my come up your arse, too. Let’s clean you up, baby.” He knelt behind Mycroft and plunged a well-lubricated finger into Mike’s arse.

“ngggg….”

“Look at you, hot for it. You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?”

Mycroft intentionally moaned. “Yes. Yes, Greg. Anything.” Saying it is hot. Admitting to being a slut for his husband is hot. Confessing to his own downfall it hot. He’s Greg’s, and when he’s Greg’s he is a pervy boy, glad to be used any way Greg likes. It’s not their only role. Normally they’re peers, and make love as peers, passing the power back and forth. But…

He loves this. Sometimes he needs this. Needs Greg’s finger driving in and out, loosening his bum, stretching it wide, slicking him for the enema nozzle.

And then the wand was in—hard, slim, seated well back from Mike’s hole. There was waggling, adjustments, something being done where Mike couldn’t see even if he weren’t tied and blindfolded.

“Aaaaahhh…”

The water was hot—almost too hot. The mixture stung and made his intestines cramp as the water flooded him. It was horrible and glorious.

“Take it, baby. More… You’re nowhere near full yet.”

He panted. Greg’s palm was in the middle of his lower back, pushing down, exaggerating the feel of being filled by the water.

“Going to clean your come-filled arse.”

He wriggled and panted, animal-helpless, squirming like a trapped kitten…

And then the water stopped.

“Ok, baby. Now, down here. Onto the towel. Lie on your side, baby.”

He let Greg ease him down to a thick pad of towels, then cover him over with more.

He could feel the hot water in his gut. He could feel the soapy solution, the rosemary sting, the smell of cleanliness.

He could feel the tight ties around his arms.

He could feel Greg, watching over him.

He felt so full. Full and just a bit crampy—the right amount, making him moan out loud, the sound resonant in the tile shower.

“God, baby. Look at you.” Greg sounded like he was falling apart. God knows Mycroft was: a naked, helpless, pervy slut, hungry to be used by his man…and loving it.

“Touch me,” he begged. “Feel me up while I hold it.”

Greg chuckled, but his hands make free, roaming his boy’s body. He grabbed Mike’s nipples and pulled. “Gonna do things to you, today,” he said, pulling them hard, making Mike squeal.

Owned. That’s what Mike loves about it all—owned, and handled, and treated like his only role in life was this.

Greg made him hold it a good half hour, turning him on his belly and then back, letting the water slop inside, forcing the intestines to cramp and complain, forcing Mike to snivel like a shamed bitch.

“Ok,” Greg said, then. “Up-up.” He helped Mike scramble from the shower to the toilet. “Let it go.”

Mike does, opening his sphincter and unloading in one jetting deluge, scented of rosemary and soap.

Greg wiped him again when he’s done, lingering, rimming, making sure Mike felt handled; felt his boundaries ignored.

“Good, baby. Now one more with cold and clear, to rinse. Then you’re clean as can be. I want you clean today.”

So again—back to the shower. This time the water was cold—so cold. Greg didn’t make him hold it as long. When it was over, Mycroft felt clean—and so small and meek. Like he’d surrendered completely. Like all his pride or cocky nerve was wrung out of him, leaving only a helpless desire to give himself to Greg and sob for him to use his boy.

Greg removed the equipment, and they showered…Greg washing first himself, then his boy, who he cleaned with prying fingers that even checked Mike’s mouth and teeth after the toothbrush has been deployed. He washed Mike’s thinning hair tenderly. He washed under armpits. He washed all around Mike’s cock and balls. He stroked Mike’s cheeks, and murmured that he liked the stubble—and announced it would remain. Then he shaved himself and drew them both out of the shower, drying them both on the thick bathmat.

Then he took Mike back to the bedroom.

“First thing,” he said, “is tidying you up. Lie down on the bed, baby.”

Mike, with no idea what’s coming, lay down.

“Legs wide.”

He opened his legs wide.

Greg smoothed something onto the edge of his pubic area—and pulled away, ripping hair with it. Mike wailed, hands trying to escape their bondage to cover his tender crotch.

“Gotta clean up that bikini line,” Greg says. “Looking entirely uncivilized.”

Without pause he does it again. Mike had deduced it, now: wax strips, soft, giving him a clean, smooth edge around a full bush surrounding his cock.

“Someday I’m going to see you in a full Brazillian, baby. Strip everything off. Above, too. Chest, back, legs. Today just a bit of manscaping.”

He used the wax strips to shape his boy’s pubic hair. He ordered the sobbing man on his belly so he could clean the fuzz out of his crack and off hi lower back entirely, until he was slick as glass back there. He tidied up a bit around his nipples.

“There. You’re done. Now, up-up. Let me untie you. I’m going to get you dressed for the day, baby. Just like a dolly. Such a sexy bae…”

Moments later, with a glorious frisson of shame and anticipation, Mike felt a waist-corset wrapped around his waist, then pulled tight—very tight. Tighter still. He felt it shape him, force his body to comply with the sculpted lines of the boned fabric.

“You’re going to have an hourglass figure,” Greg murmured. “The corset’s so pretty, too—rust brown and citrine gold trim. It makes your freckles sooo sexy.

It was so tight he couldn’t breathe without feeling it—every indrawn breath, every breath released. The cords dangled from the top of the corset down, tickling the lowest plane of his back leading into the curve of his bum.

“Beautiful,” Greg murmured, fingers stroking the newly imposed curve of his lover’s waist. “So tall and thin and sexy. You’re going to be my girl today, boy. My boy today, girl. So hot…Not one. Not the other. Both. For me.”

Mike shivered. Yes. It was hot. He’d grown up around Uncle Rudy. He never quite chose to follow his uncle’s cross-dressing preference. But…he could have. He understood it. The slim figure, the feminine lingerie, the delicate, sassy sixties dresses so short they showed the lower curve of Uncle Rudy’s bum. He was not shocked—he was melting. At last—at last he was going to try that particular kind of daring, that he had always avoided lest someone learn of it and say “Runs in the family, that kind of perv.”

Before he knew it, Greg was doing something with his nipples—gluing something on. A shield-shaped disk, open over his nipples, but glued solid to the slick, newly waxed skin around them.

“Someday I’d like to get these pierced,” Greg says, tweaking the little nubs as he admired the decoration he’d added. “Bar piercing, that I can hang dangles from. Today you’re going to have to suffer with old-school screw-ons.” And, yes—dangles were screwed tight, swinging back and forth, tugging and pulling as they swayed across his chest. Mike could already imagine the look of it: the glued-on shields would be fancy and ornate, like brocade, with rhinestones and sparkles, and the dangles would be big costume jewelry, like the dangle earrings Uncle Rudy wore. Bright. Almost exotic. 

Greg rose, then, and played with Mike’s hair. He removed his lover’s blindfold, but with a strict command he keep his eyes shut. He fluffed his forelock, pulled it forward, let it lie over Mike’s brow, flutter into his lashes. Over that he pulled a tight, clinging hood of some sort, a bit like a balaclava, leaving his face free. Then a soft, silken scarf, wrapped hijab style and pinned to the little tight hood. Then jewelry pinned to the whole—a head piece of links and stones, swinging strands, long sidelocks framing his face.

Greg added lipstick. Eye liner. Not much more. “A little is enough.”

He stood his boy up and stalked around him. He slipped shoes into his boy’s hands. “Put these on. I’d do it, but I don’t want you to fall. Doing it yourself is going to be safer. Expect low heels.”

The heels were indeed low—little kitten heels on what Mike can tell are sandals covered in rhinestones and sequins.

“Leg up,” Greg said, then…and, when something had been slipped over one foot, “Again. That’s right.”

Mycroft felt his husband draw something up his legs. Silks…but different in style than the day before, when they’d just been the cord frame that held them in place and two long, long transparent veils. Today there were still two cords, each passing through the fold of one hip and around his bum cheeks, like the leg-holes of pants. But after that came a wide, heavy belt of some sort to hold the entire thing up. It snapped into place tight, and another motion made Mycroft suspect it was locked, not just latched closed. Something cascaded down his bum in back, slithery and silken and in constant motion, falling down past his kitten heels to the carpet and beyond—he could feel the odd anchored feel of material pooled by his feet. For a moment he thought the front was open. Then Greg began to play with his cock and balls.

A layer behind his balls, whatever it was slick and soft, tickling his inner thighs, hanging down a good inch below his balls, forming a backdrop. He felt his cock lifted, and another layer laced under, between cock and balls, the top edge falling partway down his testicles. Then his cock was delicately put in place, and the final layer arranged above, reaching no further than the base of his knob, the round end hanging out in the cool air. He could imagine it: a layer of fabric behind his balls, a layer not-quite covering them, and another layer not-quite covering his cock, a teasing, coy display like a woman in a negligee that didn’t quite cover her nipples, or that exposed the underside of her breasts. Instead of concealing his prick and nuts, the front panels framed them and showed off just enough to be shameless. Filthy.

No doubt the back was no better, in spite of the sleek flow down the back of his legs.

Greg continued to play with his cock, forcing a ring over the hood of his foreskin until it settled just short of his knob, behind his frenulum. He let go and let Mike’s prick drop…

A delicate jingle of tiny bells on chains sounded, the sensation of the bells swinging against the exposed curve of his balls.

“Perfect,” Greg murmured, and brushed his hand over his lover’s genitals again, just to hear the little bells peal and chime. “Fuck, babe, you’re going to be sex walking… Every step you take I’m going to want to bend you over the furniture and screw you till you scream my name.”

In his non-submissive persona, Mycroft would have drawled “I look forward to it.” As Mikey, he was driven to a hesitant, hypercharged whimper of desire, thinking of himself at his Greg’s mercy. Or lack of mercy. “Yes, husband,” he whispered. “Please.”

Only a few details remained: snap-on shackles on both wrists and ankles. A wide collar around his throat, with a leash Greg added with a smug little grunt of satisfaction. The last thing he did was stroke scent over his boy’s skin—throat, under the silken drape of the hijab scarf, over his clavicle, in the tender inner turn of his hips, along the slight arch of his wrist. Then he patted Mike’s bum possessively, and squeezed tight, just to add to the claim. “This way, my little twat.” He tugged and led Mike across the room. “Wait here,” Greg said, and left him, standing, eyes shut. Waiting.

He could hear his husband dressing: the closet opening, drawers pulled in and out. The mattress creaking as he sat to put on his shoes. Then he came back to stand beside Mike, one hand firmly in the small of his back.

“Open your eyes, Mikey. I want you to see your man and your man’s new slut.”

Mike opened his eyes. He blinked in the strong light, forcing himself to focus. At last he looked into the mirror in front of him. His eyes went first to Greg, a good boy’s choice.

His husband was beautiful, dressed in a suit Mycroft had bought for him a year before, that he’d never worn previously—another he claimed was too fancy for the life he led. It was a wool and silk blend in darkest chocolate brown with faint rust threads scattered through and a near-gold waistcoat in brocade. He had on a watch-chain and watch, with a fancy little red-jade ojime fox for a watch fob. He wore polished brogues russet as a chestnut conker. His silver hair gleamed above the chocolate fabric, his tawny skin matched it, his dark brown eyes glowed. He was beautiful.

“Not me, bae,” he said, meeting Mike’s eyes in the mirror. “I mean, it’s nice. Glad you like the look of the man who’s going to fuck you to collapse today. But look at your beautiful self, baby.”

He would not have recognized himself.

He was obscene. Beautiful, exotic, giving off all kinds of sexual signals, all sorts of gender signals. He was male and female…the gawky, long bones of his body, the clear joints, strong wrists, shoulders, wide chest with its central patch of chest hair all clear as day. Greg had made no effort to hide his boy’s masculinity, only chosen to confuse it with dozens of little off-center cues. The jeweled headdress, hijab scarf, the sleek nylon hood that covered his head and framed his face, the sexy forelock tangled in his eyelashes—they screamed “woman,” as did the russet-red lipstick and the khol-black eye-liner that carried down his nose in an elegant cheetah-streak. The deep ginger stubble, though, was all male. The scarf was russet, nearly the color of his own natural ginger. The hood and the gems and the brooch that pinned the veil in place were a jumble of citrine and amber and topaz-gold on a deep brownish garnet background.

The collar around his neck was gold-polished leather, set with carnelian and garnet.

The shields glued to his chest, surrounding his nipples, were shining russet brocade, matching his chest hair and the tight-cinched brocade waist corset. The dangles that pinched on tight to his nipples, hurting with every swing, were amber—light, but still heavy enough to set the pendulum swinging. The clever intersection of pain, pleasure, and mercy, all made beautiful by design, triggered the chime of bells as Mike’s cock filled and rose. He glanced down and saw his rising erection lift the curtain of silk fringe, displaying the bottom line of his penis and the layer of silk fringe below, over his balls. Layer after layer in russet, with little stray gold threads for contrast. The supporting belt—indeed, locked to his body—was lined leather polished with gold, matching the leather collar, and set with carnelians and cherry amber and garnets.

Greg reached behind him and drew the back “silk” forward: a waterfall of gold and russet cords knotted with amber and citrine and carnelian and garnet beads. Mike could easily deduce how that horsetail of autumn silk cord would tumble over his arse, across his thighs, brushing the backs of his calves, and dragging like a mini-train when it continued down past the level of the floor. The cuffs on wrist and angle matched the collar and the belt.

He was a toy made to fuck. “Fuck Me Now Barbie.”

“Oh…” His voice was hushed. “God, Greg…”

Greg looked at him with burning eyes, then intentionally, slowly slid his hand over the curve of Mike’s bum, into the crack, up to his clean, tight hole—and, with a push, shoved his finger tip in.

“I’m going to have you today, baby,” he growled. “Over and over again. You’re going to spend a lot of time douching your bum so you’re clean for the next round.”

Mike, staring in the mirror, looking at where Greg’s arm disappeared behind him, feeling the hidden hand poke into his body, nodded. “Yes, husband.”

“I want to see you kneel and kiss my feet, my pretty harem slut.”

Mike, shivering like he had a fever, forced himself to kneel as gracefully as possible. He pressed his face to the clean, polished leather of his man’s shoes. He kissed them. Out of the corner of his eye he could see himself in the mirror. The back cords of his silk skirt hid nothing. His bum was round and clean and pale, promising the hole hidden between his cheeks. He looked like one of the virgins assigned to martyrs in some versions of Islamic heaven.

He kissed Greg’s feet again, and rubbed his face over the shoes. “I love you, Greg.”

Greg squatted, and ran his hand over the veils and down Mike’s back, ending just above his butt. “Love you, too, Mycroft. Is this week what you wanted?”

Mike could only nod. At last he managed to whisper, “Yes. Wonderful.”

“You’re beautiful. And you’re my submissive, so you don’t get to argue, or go put on a suit to hide that beauty behind fusty Old Boy costuming. You’re my sexy toy…”

“Yes.”

“Turn around.”

Oh, God. Yes. He shifted in little steps, keeping himself hunched and humble, knees on the carpet, the toes of his little kitten heeled sandals digging into the wool nap. He pushed his face into the floor.

He felt Greg work a dab of lubricant into his arse.

“First fuck of the day, bae. If you’re very good, I’ll feed you scrambled egg out of my hand once you’ve douched and come back to me.”

He heard his husband unzip. One hand drew the flow of cord aside, clearing access to his arse. “Hips up a bit, baby boy.”

“Yes, Greg.” He pushed them up. He felt Greg slip on a bit more lubricant, cold in the air of the room. Felt him nestle the tip of his cock against Mike’s hole. Then, slowly, slowly, he began to enter, one hand bracing the rod of his erection against the slow-motion advance.

Mike grunted, needing it, wanting to shout, “Take me hard. Take me fast.” But this was erotic, too, and it was what his husband had chosen. A slow assault.

“I want you to stroke you cock, Mikey,” Greg said, voice calm and controlled. “Slow. Easy. No rush. I want you to rub yourself like you’ve got all year to come…”

“Yes.” He did…not his ordinary style of masturbation. It was dry skin over dry skin, seductive in its own way.

Greg reached forward, handing him a pure silk handkerchief. “Cover yourself. I want you to be such a clean, clean boy this morning.”

He did. It added a slipper texture, and the smell of a hot iron.

There was a slight pop sensation. Greg had penetrated him, cock tip entirely past the tight ring of his sphincter. A breathy, longing sound escaped Mike, and he kept up his slow wank.

“Look at yourself in the mirror, boy. Look at us in the mirror.”

He turned his head. From here he looked almost entirely female except for the dark beard coming in, with Greg masculine and powerful behind him, full dressed, a hand flannel protecting his suit. He’d planned ahead. The hand flannel gave the image a certain crude grounding: not a fantasy, but a man who had no intention of soiling himself in his pursuit of pleasure.

He was moving slowly, undulating, the in-and-out of his movements supple and lazy. His eyes were bedroom eyes, the lids low, his mouth full. As Mike watched, Greg’s hand slid up his back, up, under the scarf, under the edge of the little hood, and hooked into the back of the gold collar. He tugged, pulling the collar tight, reducing Mike’s ability to breathe.

Mike moaned, then. His cock grew harder.

Greg had set the pace. In-out…in-out…in-out. His fingers pulsed with the beat, taking the collar over and over again to almost hurting as it cut into Mike’s throat and pressed against his Adam’s apple. Mike matched it in his slow, stately toss of his wrist as he fucked his own cock. Up-down…Up-down…Up-down. The white tent of the silk handkerchief stood out against the thick little hedges of russet and gold fringe.

He watched them both. He watched himself be taken.

The desire grew so slowly.

“Whose are you,” Greg gasped from behind.

“Yours.”

“Mine,” he said back, voice soft with contentment. “You’re mine, Mycroft Holmes. Here. On your knees. With my cock up your arse. You’re mine.”

“Yes… I’m coming, Greg.”

“Yes. First time I let you this week. Come on, baby boy.”

He was so thick, Mike thought. His husband was so thick—he filled him to the point of pain. He loved that. He loved this slow, masterful, possessive fuck. He loved being on his knees, Greg taking him up the bum, hand tight in his collar. He was Greg’s toy.

Thinking it, hearing the constant faint jingle of the bells on his cock, he felt his need rise.

“I’m almost there, husband.”

“That’s all right, boy. Let it come. I’ll bring you to the end.” His slow drive began to increase in speed and in force. He drove in, in control, prepared.

It was beyond erotic, Mike thought, as coherent thought receded. Then he thought, “This.” And, finally, “Yes!”

His owner, his husband, drove in hard, and harder, and harder, as Mike spilled into the white handkerchief. A moment later and the flannel was put to use, as Greg cleaned himself and the surfaces of his boy’s bum.

Mycroft was floating between cathartic tears and dumb grins. He sighed as his husband patted the curve of his arse.

“Ok, my beautiful fuck-toy. Give yourself a few minutes to recover. Then go clean yourself. You’ll find a douche set in the bathroom cupboard. When you’re clean, come out to the kitchen and I’ll feed you eggs and bacon and fresh peaches and cream, and let you sip hot tea out of a mug.”

“Yes, Greg,” Mike said, smiling dreamily.

In his mind, for the first time ever, he was beautiful. Not passing as beautiful, in his beautiful bespoke suits. Today he himself was a beautiful, beautiful fuck toy, and perfectly content on his knees fulfilling his owner’s will.


End file.
